There Are Two Versions To

Thats The Way It Is With Poetry: When It Is Incomprehensible It Seems Profound, And When You Understand It, It Is Only Ridiculous.

Goodbye, You Who Are, For Me, The Postmarks Again Of Shattered Towns--xenia, Burnt Cabins, Hornell-- Their Loneliness Given Away In Poems, Only Their Solitude Kept.

Sometimes It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness

The Bud Stands For All Things, Even For Those Things That Don't Flower

The Only Sense We Still Respect Is Eyesight, Probably Because It Is So Closely Attached To The Brain. Go Into Any American House At Random, You Will Find Something - A Plastic Flower, False Tiles, Some Imitation Something - Something Which Can Be Appreciated As Material Only If Apprehended By Eyesight Alone. Don't We Go Sightseeing In Cars, Thinking We Can Experience A Landscape By Looking At It Through Glass?